The ice cream man has stopped coming around; the absence of his tinkling music box crept into my awareness the way you might realize the rain has stopped. The rain; what I would give for some of that now. Streets are empty, silent. Schools shut down. The dust is disturbingly settled. Choppers fly in tandem over rooftops. A surveillance balloon stares down upon the city. In two days is the election. It will take time for results, but given the view from the ground, any stamp of validation would be at its own peril. It is expected that millions more ballots will be cast than people who actually vote. We’ve stocked up on food and fuel, as have most people in Kabul. Food prices about doubled overnight. Nobody knows what to expect. I have not felt this degree of mass uncertainty since the eve of Y2K. This time is more visceral. On the heels of the revolt in Iran, here there may be a swelling of anger to the breaking point. There are too many poor, homeless people watching too few people benefit from the occupation. Men we call Taliban line the road to Paghman just west of Kabul, bridges are destroyed, leaflets distributed, as well as a promise to remove any finger that votes. More rockets today. The kids and I sit in front of the television every evening at 6pm. While the top candidates debate, we cheer our favorite, Bashardost, the only one pulling votes without money, without body guards, who has gone to every province, who points at the true fabric of the Emperor’s new clothes. War presses in on this capital that has suffered infinitely worse, but remembers as clearly as if it were yesterday. Citizens prepare for an approaching storm. In the midst of this bottlenecked world I naively, stubbornly push to have a final Art Party before I leave. Around 40 kids will perform for the community a week from Friday. With the schools shut down it is good to keep the children busy, memorizing poems in Pashtu, Dari and English, rehearsing a play, a song, learning how to use a microphone. The production has just about reached that stage where the children pull it along by themselves, and all I have to do is be there to watch. We feel safe, here in Mehan, but the curtains remain closed and nobody steps outside unless they have to. The ladies in the kitchen are preparing a special meal for me, a kind of pasta stuffed with delectables. I only wish the rest of the kids could have made it back from visiting their villages before things got hot in Kabul. Now nobody moves.
I am tired, weak and skinny. I want to go home… and I never want to leave Mehan. I cannot describe how attached I’ve become to the children. They are a part of my family. In some ways for all of you who have followed my entries and allowed yourself to be pulled into my experience, I like to think they are a part of your family too. I know it is difficult to be on the outside, imagining. In two weeks I pack my bags. Returning to the outside, I feel a physical repulsion to leaving the children here in the middle of this historically ominous soon to be decade long war. Right now all I can do is immerse myself in the remaining days of this journey. Tomorrow is “Freedom Day” in Afghanistan, though this time there will be no parades. It marks the day the British were expelled, commencing what would be a long and laborious contraction of the Empire. The girls have attached their green, red and black flag to a pole on the roof, the only one I see in the neighborhood. We’ve planned our day: music, dancing, a water fight, three run-throughs of the play they will perform at the Art Party, and before bed a movie. My door is open. I play Afghan classical music over the new sound system, fill the orphanage with the haunting, echoing rabab that climbs and descends, reflecting the pulse that has no say but to respond to the world. The girls enter and leave like the constantly shifting breeze. They know I am leaving. They ask when I will return. A week? A month? My heart contracts. I answer, and like Godot, I have no answer.
A little over a year ago I saw no path to Afghanistan. It materialized as if I had simply donned a pair of special glasses to see it. I remember a row during Obama’s campaign about the definition and importance of tactics and strategies and “gut” feelings. The reason we entered this war, as we and our British friends reiterate, was to prevent Afghanistan from providing a home base for international terrorists, our volition spurred by the horror of the suddenly investigated treatment of Afghan women. Looking closely at the status of international terrorism and the plight of Afghan women today, I think now there was a larger reason, one beaded far into the future. The reason I gave for coming here was to cast a positive American light on some children, to prevent one more terrorist, to liberate the life of one girl. I do not know to what extent I have helped, I do know to a certain extent I have confused or even fowled. I had to learn some things I’d forgotten or ignored back when my life was simpler and lessons farther reaching, a time when I was afraid of the dark, when dreaming was not so distinctly separate from living, and living was endless, like a spiral. Unlike my country I’ve always known the date of my departure. Whatever remains of me will have to settle in the memories of these children.
The ghazal playing on the stereo is coming to its natural conclusion. Two more times I will tap words from inside Afghanistan, for you and you and you. Two more Fridays, two more Jummas. It fills me with great satisfaction and trust to know you will be there in this little ending as you were when I first haughtily prescribed a reading list and then fell into tears flying over the Hindu Kush in a plane full of mujahidin. That is all the orphan children of Mehan and Sitara want to know; like family, will I be there in the end.
22 August
Come, come, whoever you are.
Wonderer, worshipper, lover of leaving.
It doesn’t matter.
Ours is not a caravan of despair.
Come, even if you have broken your vow
a thousand times
Come, yet again, come, come
The Art Party will begin with this invocation. Zainab, the four foot eight sixteen year old from Nuristan who watches over the library will recite the Rumi poem in English, followed by her little brother Ekram who will recite it in Dari. Zainab has a little trouble with the v in “caravan” and “vow”, but otherwise does a splendid job. With Ekram the trick will be to get him to slow down.
In good Greek fashion, placing comedy first, the drama group will perform a skit derived from an Afghan folk tale about a woman who has two husband, one a thief by night and the other a thief by day. The husbands are thus unenlightened as to each other’s existence. Shiraz (the tough boy who loves Michael Jackson’s music) plays the wife, wearing a mop on his head. Two of the younger boys play the thieves. It is played Charlie Chaplain style, to the immortal music from the Pink Panther movies. Shiraz is perfect for the role, hamming it up naturally. In a moment of greed the wife sends the night thief out in the morning, the husbands meet and the folly begins. A contest ensues. One husband make out in the end, while the disgruntled victims of all this thievery take their ire out on the wife and her winning thief.
Then the older boys take the stage; Dariush, Sorab, Farid Gul, Ali and Omid. They will line up with hands folded and in gentlemanly tone give a five part recital of Shakespeare’s famous exposition concerning the seven ages in a man’s life. Dariush is the only one thus far who understands what I mean when I say dramatic. He opens and closes the speech, and though I cannot do it justice in words, try to imagine a subcontinent accent drawing out, “Aaaaawl da world’s a stage…” and bringing it home with “Saaans teed, saaans eyes, saaans ev-er-y-thing!”
Drama group will once again perform, this time a tragedy. I have written a one-act version of Bertolt Brecht’s most famous anti-war play, Mother Courage and Her Children. Jamshid has kindly translated it into Dari. Sahar, an Uzbek who is ordinarily shy but has that glimmer in her eyes indicating she is just waiting for the safe and acceptable place to emote, will perform the title role. The play begins with the General of the Blue Army discussing the problem of attrition among his soldiers in this, the thirtieth year of war. His Captain tries to dissuade him but to no avail, the age for conscription will be lowered to twelve. Mother Courage enters leading her two sons, Nan who pushes a huge cart full of wares, and the younger Jamma. Sitting in the cart through the entire skit is her ten-year old daughter Maya. Mother Courage is one of hundreds of widows making ends meet by selling pots, shoes, “anything at all” that she has found along the road. The Blue General distracts Mother Courage by haggling over the price of a pot, while his Captain cuts a deal with Nan, conscripting him into their army. Too late, Mother Courage curses the war, but without choices she moves on. The ugly Cook tries to persuade her to marry him. She is repulsed by him, but allows him a kiss in return for a favor. The General of the White army needs a paymaster, and Jamma might land the job with the Cook’s good word. Jamma gets the job but only after Mother Courage proves her loyalty by cursing and slapping her own son Nan, who after being captured by the Whites is now a prisoner of war. She has a plan, though, and sends Jamma with the paymaster’s box to settle a ransom for the release of his brother. Jamma believes he has succeeded, but unbeknownst to him his brother tries to steal back the money and gets killed running away. The war presses in, now the Blue army enters into the White city. Mother Courage has no time to change the sign on her cart from white to blue before the Blue General enters. Jamma is arrested and shot dead for being a paymaster for the Whites. In a final meeting in the ruined city, the Cook has one more offer for Mother Courage, this time he wants to purchase her daughter. Mother Courage fights him off, but that night when she sleeps Maya, having witnessed all the years her mother has tried desperately to make enough money to survive, finally gets down from the cart, sneaks away and collects the dowry. She tucks the cash in her mother’s sleeve and walks away with the Cook. Mother Courage wakes and, realizing her fate and the fate of her children, slowly takes up the cart and hauls it herself. “Pots for sale!” she yells to nobody there. “Anything for sale…” and she disappears into the heart of the city.
We rehearse every day from five to six. Farzana Nori plays the Blue General with a passion. I do believe that girl could be a professional actress. She is self assured, smart, is stunningly beautiful and understands that a good performance is about reacting, not acting. Sorab plays Jamma. He is a dedicated boy, polite, handsome, first in his class. He has to hold a book to his nose to read because of a degenerative problem with the lens in each of his eyes. The only cure is a transplant, not exactly a common occurrence in Kabul. His older sister Sitiza plays the White General. She is mostly there for the social aspect to drama, but she adds moral when the shy ones balk. We will have to find a way to hide her braided hair that goes all the way down the small of her back to her waist. Sunbola plays little Maya. She has a perpetual smile on her face; the slightest antic makes her giggle. Coaxing her to feign a sad face and project sorrow and angst feels almost criminal, but otherwise this tragedy will swiftly become another comedy. Shogofa plays the sleazy Cook, and this she does as convincingly as her storytelling older brother Omid would. The house parent’s son Mahsan plays Nan, and other of the orphans fill-in as soldiers. So far so good. Lines have been learned and blocking finalized. At first it was a daunting task to direct a play written in another language cast with children who know very little English, but after living together for four and a half months there are ways to communicate beyond words.
On the heels of Mother Courage comes Blowin’ in the Wind. It is meant to be. Out will come five of the girls to recite Dylan’s peace anthem in Dari, then Nabila and one of our young boys with an angel voice, Araj will sing the song as a duet. Frishta bumblebee will lead the chorus, I will accompany on cittern.
Then Sosan and Farzana Nori will recite a poem by Nadia Anjuman, the young woman who studied in the sewing circles of Herat during Taliban rule, and who later was murdered under mysterious circumstances. A new girl from one of the sister orphanages in Pakistan will recite the poem in Dari. Sherefa is sixteen, and has lived in the orphanages since she was seven. Over the past few weeks I asked her to rehearse with me, but she kept making excuses. The other night around nine there came a tapping on my door. “Is okay if I rehearse now?” Of course. I was overjoyed. She stood in the center of my room and recited the entire poem in a commanding, shaking voice that originated deep in her chest. It was as if she wanted to summon all the Afghan heroines through history. Knowing the meaning but hearing the poem in its native tongue, I was left speechless. I felt as if I’d been schooled in how to change the world. “Is good?” she asked, demurely. I nodded, open mouthed.
Nazm by Nadia Anjuman ?Translated by Khizra Aslam
O the one who hides in the mountain of unfamiliarity!
O you that sleep in the quietness of the pearl.
O who remains in the memories!
Bring the memories of transparent water.
In a river like forgetfulness, my mind is full of dust.
The voice that comes from the mountain makes me think
That from the one who destroys, how can you get your golden string?
That the storm of cruelty affects the faith.
How can you get the comfort of a moon from a silver leaf?
There is no death after this!
If the river stops to flow,
And if the clouds open a way to your heart,
And yes, if the daughter of the moon blesses you with her smiles.
If the mountains become soft, greenery grows,
Fruit grows.
And one was kind, from all the unkind.
Will the sun rise?
Will the memories rise with it too?
Those memories that are hidden from our eyes
And while frightened from the flood and the rain of cruelness
Will the light of hope appear?
At this point the lights will be dimmed for a slide show presentation of the best photos taken by the students in photography class. The show mostly contrasts life in a refugee camp with life in the orphanage. The images are striking for their honesty. Like children’s art there is no filter between the seer and the subject. The fact that none of these kids had ever held a camera before only deepens the experience. Some of the best pictures they consider bad, and some of the ones I rejected they consider best, but in the end they learned there is value in getting up close, filling the frame, considering perspective, keeping an eye open to anything passing through time, to the weather and the whereabouts of the sun. They know at least the bare rudiments of how to make the strange familiar and familiar strange, to ignore the obvious and exaggerate the particular. There are four photos I go back to. One was taken by Omid of some ruins not far from the orphanage. In the foreground is the blurred head of a younger boy, Rahmat passing by on his way to school. Another was taken by Fawad near a playground. In it, Fati is either running toward the camera or has just tossed a ball. He is happy. Beside him are huge white stones piled high, and just behind him is a steel shed the size of a shipping container, twisted and blown out as if from an explosion. Through an opening you see the rest of the grounds, other children playing football on the hard, greenless earth. Beyond that is Kabul, and beyond that the mountains. A simple photo. An accident. I don’t know why Fawad might have been compelled to even snap the shot. The third photo was taken by Mahbooba on the roof of Mehan during a dust storm. Like Fawad’s, the shot was taken off kilter, except this time on purpose. It shows Adila spreading her arms in the wind, a contented, almost blissful yet determined grin on her face. She too is off kilter, opposite from the camera’s bent, creating a quincunx between her arms and the railing behind her. The last photo is by an unknown artist who took up Masuda’s camera and caught her sleeping one pale afternoon. It is such an intimate thing, to stare at someone sleeping; it borders on being an invasion of privacy. Though I am compelled to turn away, I stare. All four of these photos are flawed, grainy. Composition-wise they do not hang with most of the others. But there they are, again and again on my computer screen. Maybe it is the extent to which they invite the eye to travel inward to an imaginary world. Maybe it is that they are impossible to grasp hold of. Like ghosts Rahmat, Fati, Adila and Masuda are caught between worlds.
After the slide show the Art Party concludes with a recital of a poem by the Fourteenth Century poet Hafiz. He was a Persian mystic who, as his name suggests, memorized and interpreted the Koran. He emulated Rumi, though in some ways was more politically outspoken. He’d been run out of town several times in his life before one day, sipping a cup of wine with his mentor, he experienced that kind of spontaneous apotheosis cherished by Lao Tzu all the way to the likes of Kerouac. Adila and Malalai will recite the poem in Farsi, Sadaf and Sahar in Pashtu, and Mercel, Shazia and Zainab in English. It is terribly ecstatic, as with many Sufi poems, addressed to the poet straight from the Muse.
We are the guardians of Beauty
We are the protectors of the sun.
There is only one reason we have followed God into this world:
To encourage laughter, freedom, dance and love.
Let a noble cry inside of you speak to me saying,
“Hafiz, don’t just sit there on the moon tonight doing nothing?
Help unfurl my heart into the friend’s mind,
Help, Old Man, to heal my wounded wings!”
We are the companions of His beauty
We are the guardians of truth.
Every man, plant and creature in existence,
Every woman, child, vein and note is a servant of our Beloved?
A harbinger of joy,
The harbinger of? Light.
PHOTO: the four finalist pics adila roof/playing in yard/masuda sleep/boy crossing ruins